A.V

 Sometimes I wish that all my thoughts could be logged automatically somehow. It would make a great book and take much less effort. Then I suppose all my secrets and lies would be shown to the world, and how cowardly I am. It's a thought that only comes when I can't write down the poem or thought I am weaving in my mind. I am a hypocrite. Even though I don't like lies, I deceive like a sly fox to avoid situations I despise. I guess I have been quite skilled at avoiding things, like when guests come. I lower my gaze, wear a gentle smile, and speak only select words. Rarely do I see people eye to eye—they live in my periphery. Cowardly enough, I don't even make prolonged eye contact with my parents. I am not the domestic type; I am the type to be left alone on a mountaintop, in a wooden shack I call home, with no one close by. I fear my own future. I wonder if I'll be able to manage family matters. I hate surprises and humans, though for humans, I think the hate comes...

Caught a cold, and even though I have a stuffy nose, mild cough, Strained eyes, and an aching brain, This moment heals me. Have taken the meds, Again I sit at my desk, In a dimly lit room, With Lofi songs filling the air, Hugging my tender shawl, I study in a cosy atmosphere. Away from screens and stimuli, This moment heals me, just like sleep. A.V

 I am eighteen—yet no adult, Aren’t they supposed to be responsible? Kind, composed, steady hands that build? Then what am I doing? Skipping classes, dodging exams, Eleventh-grade syllabus complete. Yet the lectures sit untouched, Questions unanswered. Only four months remain. I feel left behind, Like a small child crying quietly, Choking on his own inabilities— Drenched in envy, craving something more. Lost and blind, hiding from sight, Isolated, a shadow in my own home. Not even family truly knows me, And friends feel like strangers. Only I remain— Alone with dusty books, Whispers of dreams that never speak back. A.V

Dear Me, If you ever find yourself losing control, losing yourself, falling into the depths. If you ever feel hopeless, distant, or away from others... Stand up. Take a warm, long shower. Brush your teeth. Clean the dusty tables, sweep the floors, tidy up the room. Wash your clothes, clear the trash, make the bed. Wipe the stained mirrors, dust off the books. Drink some water— you must be thirsty. You’re hungry right Don’t worry. Wear the outfit you’ve always wanted to wear but never did. Dress yourself well. Take the keys, step outside, and ride. Feel the rhythm of your heart fighting off the cold wind. Let the movement remind you—you’re alive. Feel your body being alive.  Stop at a dosa shop. Find a seat. order your heart out, without hesitation. Look around. Watch the people, living their lives, laughing, talking. Smell the rich air filled with spices. Hear the sizzle of batter on the pan. Don’t hold back—I know your mouth is watering. Your order arrives. The dosa glistens with ...

I don’t know why, but I know how I feel. It feels as if— I’ve returned home, after a long adventure, full of ups and downs, with whispers of nostalgia. To my little paradise in the mountains, where birds chirp, and the air sings, wrapped in the quiet relief of home. As if I’ve finally bathed after a weary journey, as if I hold a dear hand close, as if I’m lulled by the lazy sloth of a warm afternoon. Perhaps it’s the weather, this gentle blame I place— but I wish, at life’s end, to be engulfed once more by this same tender embrace. A.V

Fluffy clothes now softly sway, Fog descends, a silver gray. The wind grows crisp, a chilly tune, While the sun’s allure begins to bloom. Heavy quilts on warm beds lie, Shielding dreams beneath the sky. A breath of frost fills lungs with chill, The heart ignites, alive with thrill. Upon my two-wheeler, I glide, Cold air strikes, yet warmth resides. The sun’s embrace, a gentle balm, A fleeting moment, pure and calm. A.V